My daughter was a past tense,

was a feather—falling, fallen—

a hollowed barb of crimson

cardinaling the sky.

She was once the colour blue,

scudding clouds and clear,

so clear—stretching

past horizons that I pinned

to her like mittens to a coat

to keep them close. My daughter

was a pod of milkweed

bursting into autumn—

freckle seeds on tufts of silk

that twirled like spiders

in the breeze. She was

a burr that clung, a clothespin

holding me together,

a fumbling in the dark

at the edge of what might

be. My daughter was

a dancer, was an actor,

a champagne flute of laughter,

a tuba—round and blasting

filled with breath and brassy

shining. My daughter was

a past tense, is a presence

conjugating, a chorus of cicadas

setting fire to the wind. Sometimes

a truther, or a teller,

or a thistle wand of wishes,

she’s the callus on a tree trunk

oozing sap to seal the wound.